Eighteen
by TMBlue
Summary: COMPLETE! Ron Weasley turns eighteen.


_**A/N:** I wrote this yesterday on Tumblr, so here it is for FFN! I hope you all had a great Ron's 38th Birthday!_

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It wasn't til mid-day that he'd even realised it was his eighteenth birthday. He'd been out for a while, with Harry, foraging edible plants and berries, and he suspected they'd both wordlessly agreed to give Hermione some time and space to herself, particularly given her annoyance the previous night when Harry had accused her of obsessing over the Horcruxes… And it wasn't as if Ron thought he could say much of anything helpful, considering she was still generally ignoring him, though he _had_ seen a few small signs of her mood lightening that made him pause, made him feel somewhat hopeful again.

They'd returned to the tent as the spring sun was just beginning its descent below the trees, dropping the temperature noticeably. Harry had washed up first, then offered to start supper as Ron showered and dressed in the last of his clean jeans, deciding that he ought to work on washing clothes after they ate. And he'd probably have left Hermione alone, but he needed a jumper from his bunk, so he cautiously made his way through the opening toward their makeshift bedroom… and promptly stopped in his tracks.

She was sitting in the centre of her bed, eyes closed, quietly sobbing.

"Hermione?!"

She flinched, red-rimmed eyes flying open, shaking hands sweeping across her tear-streaked face.

"What do you _w-want_?" she managed in a strained, high-pitched voice.

"I'm sorry. I just…" He paused to swallow, eyebrows furrowed with concern. "You're crying." He could have immediately kicked himself for his idiotic words, as if she wasn't already clearly embarrassed for him to have found her that way.

"And?" she shot back, but he startled himself that he could honestly tell the difference quite easily now between genuine anger and defensive. Whatever it was, she hadn't wanted him to find out.

As he tried to decide what to say next, his gaze dropped to her mattress, and he saw it. Her bed was covered in his clothes. And she was wearing one of his jumpers.

"What's all this? I was gonna do the washing - was just thinking about it - and-"

A fresh wave of tears cascaded down her cheeks, and she covered her face, sniffing loudly. Okay, he'd seen her cry before, more times than he wished he had, but this was different - frustrated, pitiful, not the kind of wracking sorrow she'd released after altering her parents' memories.

Very tentatively, he took a small step closer, the first move in a long strategy to try and sit on the floor in front of her bed. But he'd traveled just far enough to see the tightly wrapped balls of yarn in her lap, needles poking out of them.

"Uh… were you knitting?"

"If you're g-going to make fun of me, I just really c-can't right now, Ron!"

"I'm not!"

He hadn't meant to shout so loud, but her words were distressing for multiple reasons. Had he fucked up so much that she honestly thought he was constantly out looking for ways to tease her? No, she had to know him better than that. But he felt a stab and twist of remorse for comments about hats and house-elves, made so long ago now that he doubted whether he was properly recalling them.

"I just came in here for a clean jumper, but it looks like you've got them all…" he explained, feeling lost.

She sighed heavily, reached for the nearest one, and tossed it forcefully to him.

"That one had a hole in the elbow." A second jumper came hurtling toward him, and he narrowly caught it. "That one had a rip at the bottom." Before he could comprehend what was happening, a pair of socks sailed over his left shoulder. "Those were worn so badly in the heels, they almost weren't worth saving."

She paused to sniff and wipe her eyes on the too-long sleeves of the jumper she was currently wearing, giving him enough time to formulate a shocked reply.

"You were stitching my clothes?"

She stared silently up at him, eyes narrowed. He looked more carefully at the jumpers in his arms, quickly locating the repairs she'd done. The stitches were a bit tight in some spots, and the wool was wrinkled where it was tugged together, but he really wasn't thinking about that. It must have really taken her quite a while to have done all that work for him, and-

"I don't know wh-why I've done it," she sniffed, interrupting his thoughts. "We're barely speaking to each other."

He glanced up again to meet her eyes, a millionth apology on the tip of his tongue. And was she crying because she'd done something nice when he didn't deserve it? Or did she actually wish things could be better, between them, the same as he did?

"And I think I've d-done a bad job on them, anyway," she continued, "but it's too late now, so you'll just have to take the stitches out if…" She trailed off shakily, and he quickly shook his head.

"No. This is _brilliant_."

Her tense expression softened immediately, and he awkwardly scratched his ear as she stared up at him, but she wasn't actively crying anymore, so he thought he could risk it. Bunching the jumpers in his arms, he placed them on his own bed, then moved across to hers and tentatively sat next to her, leaving enough space between them to not seem too enthusiastic…

He really wanted her to know how his heart was pounding faster, just sitting there with her. He wanted her to understand, without having to say the words. And he really couldn't shake the thought that she could have fixed his clothes with magic, but she hadn't. When she'd first knitted for the house-elves, he'd thought she simply hadn't known the charms yet, but maybe she'd done it by hand in part to show she'd cared, even if they hadn't understood. And, if the same was true today… She certainly knew the charms to knit now - he'd seen her do them.

He chanced a direct glance at her profile, watching her eyes slip shut as she shakily sighed. When she opened them again, a sad sort of resigned expression filled her features, and she nervously played with the long cuffs of his jumper sleeves, over her hands.

"I couldn't help it," she said softly. "I've been thinking about it for weeks. It's not like we can do much to celebrate your birthday, out here."

His eyes widened as he comprehended her words, and she seemed to be forcefully avoiding looking directly at him.

"Hang on, what? You did this because it's my birthday?"

She wrung her hands in her lap and shrugged.

"I told you… I shouldn't've…"

She'd remembered his birthday. They were living off foraged scraps of food, muddy and cold and frustrated, trudging away at what often felt like an impossible task… and she'd remembered his bloody birthday.

He rubbed his hands over his face, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by mistakes and longing for her closeness, what they'd had before he'd left, before the sodding locket. He could suddenly feel her watching him, and he finally turned to fully gaze at her, creased forehead, a growing headache, and an awful lot of regret.

"I should have never made fun of your knitting," he started, at random. "You really meant well, and I was a git."

She shook her head slowly, and he licked his chapped lips.

"I wish you could just…" he started again, not entirely sure what he was going to say before he'd said it. "I wish you could know how sorry I am."

He sincerely hoped she didn't think they were still talking about knitting… But then her eyes began to shimmer with tears again.

"I know," she whispered.

Glorious moments ticked past, and the silence felt warm and welcome again like it hadn't in ages. And she almost smiled - maybe he could believe it _had_ been one if he tried. It was, by far, the longest they'd looked at each other since he'd come back.

"Not that I mind at all, but why are you _wearing_ that one?" he finally asked, indicating his jumper sleeve, covering her hand… an excuse to move just a bit closer to her.

"Oh." She glanced down, shrugging. "Thought it would be easier to see the fit of the sleeve - there's a rip in the seam under the arm."

She lifted her right arm to show him the tiny hole, and there was no way he could pretend not to notice her bare skin underneath…

"But of course it's much too big on me," she concluded, looking back up at him again.

"You wore it before, at Grimmauld Place," he said softly, not sure why he was mentioning it aloud. They'd never talked about it.

"Yes," she admitted, somewhat surprisingly, "I did."

They were too close… too close to still be so desperately far away. He found himself frequently imagining he would do something he'd been too afraid to do before, like a switch had been flicked and the struggle with his own fear of the unknown had been wiped away. Holding her hand, putting his arm around her again like he had done those times when he'd had the excuse of comforting her. He wouldn't have an excuse, this time. He didn't need one. Except… damn his timing, because everything had changed.

"I know we can't just… start over like I never left. But maybe-" He cut himself off to find a way to explain, some offer that was just enough to know they'd be okay.

"Maybe," she repeated, sniffing.

He stared at her again, hardly breathing. What was she really saying? He'd not reached the end of his own thoughts, and yet… _maybe_.

"Now that you're here," she began in a strangely shaky yet resigned voice as she finally looked away from him, "I've got an idea."

She shifted the rest of his clothes to the opposite end of the bed and reached down to take off his jumper, shocking him speechless for a moment as he'd suspected she wasn't wearing much underneath it. But there was a light blue vest still covering her as she handed the jumper to him.

"Help me?" she requested, and he was about to ask for clarification when she cleared her throat and explained. "If you put it on, inside out, I can stitch the seam."

"Oh. You don't need to do any more of this."

She frowned slightly, nervous gaze darting away from him.

"If you don't want me to-"

"S'not that," he was quick to assure her, realising his mistake. "Just seems like a lot of work."

"I could've done it by magic…" she said softly, and he was reminded of his suspicions.

"Thought so," he managed through his suddenly dry throat, but she carefully ignored him.

"Go on, then." She nodded toward the jumper in his hands, cheeks lightly flushed. "That's the last one, anyway."

Giving in, he shoved his arms through the sleeves and pulled it over his head, inside out.

"Lie down," she instructed, and his brows shot up. "So you won't have to hold your arm up in the air while I fix it…" she explained.

"Oh. Right."

She slid off the edge of her bed to sit on her knees, on the floor, while he stretched out on his back, and he turned his head to watch her as she carefully threaded a needle, biting her bottom lip. Once finished, she tugged his arm, and he bent it up under his head for her. She studied the small hole she was fixing, lightly touching the tip of her finger to it before loosely holding the ripped wool in one hand and carefully beginning her stitches with the other.

With nothing else to do but think, so close to her, he melted into how comfortable this was, lying on her bed, cozy in the jumper she'd warmed up for him, with her own body heat… The lanterns were dim, but he could still clearly tell she'd been crying - even if he hadn't seen her, he'd have known by her glassy, bloodshot eyes. He wanted a lot of things - craving to touch her, the sound of her voice in his ear, all the private things that happened in his most vivid dreams - but, just then, all he wanted was for her to crawl up into her bed and lay there, next to him. They could fall asleep, her head on his shoulder…

"Don't move," she whispered, eyes never leaving her work. He knew she only meant to keep him from getting hurt if her needle slipped, but he wouldn't have moved, anyway.

Of course he'd never received extravagant gifts as a child, birthday presents mostly coming to him second or third hand. But there had been some really good days, chocolate cakes, the watch his family had sent and the Keeper's gloves Harry had given him before he'd been poisoned… None of that mattered, anymore.

She didn't hate him. Her face was inches away from him as she worked. He was lying on her bed.

"Almost done," she said softly, licking her bottom lip.

"Take your time," he heard himself reply, in a hoarse voice.

Her eyes darted up to meet his for a brief moment of heart-stopping bliss, and he smiled. She went back to her stitching, inhaling through slightly parted lips…

"There," she breathed, slipping the needle free. "Just got to tie this…" Her fingers brushed his arm as she finished up and inspected her work. "Alright. You can move now."

He lowered his arm from behind his head, but that was all he did to follow her instruction. Her eyes met his again.

"Thank you," he said quietly, and she gave him the smallest nod… then shifted on the floor, moving just a bit closer.

"I… I'm going to tell you something, but you can't say anything back."

He swallowed, suddenly nervous, but he quickly agreed.

"Yeah, alright…"

She seemed to be struggling fiercely with something, before she reached up to touch his arm, on the pretense of inspecting a small pick in the wool by his elbow.

"I'm… really glad you're back," she finally said, and, for a moment, he couldn't breathe. When at last he remembered how, he sucked in a short breath, nearly forgetting that he wasn't supposed to reply.

But he wasn't capable of stopping the relieved smile from spreading across his face as she stared at him, eyes shining. Giving up for the time being on excuses, she fully rested both hands on his arm, never looking away. And neither one of them moved again until Harry called them for supper.


End file.
